South African Anecdotes.
Collected from various sources, Oral andWritten.
ByA. ELLMAN.
Some forty years ago a schoolmaster was imported from Holland to teach in the Zoutpansberg District. To their horror, the elders of the district one day discovered that the children were taught that the world turns on its own axis. The elders met and consulted regarding these new doctrines, and finally agreed to refer the subject to the minister, who requested the schoolmaster to explain. The schoolmaster said: “I teach them about the heavenly bodies, and that the earth revolves round the sun.” The minister answered: “Well, this may be true, no doubt—and what the earth does in Holland, but it would be more convenient at present if in the Zoutpansberg district you would allow the sun still to go round the earth for a few years longer. We do not like sudden changes in such matters.”
During the war, some troops marching to the relief of Kimberley halted at Hanover Road after a weary day’s marching. “Call this Hanover Road!” exclaimed a Tommy. “I call this h—l of a road.”
In the early days at Barberton there was a digger well known as “Charlie the Reefer.” He was a successful digger, and soon after his arrival at De Kaap he came into town with a bagful of nuggets, which he exchanged for sovereigns at the Bank. He then proceeded to the Landdrost’s office and said to the astonished official that he wished to deposit ten pounds.
“What is that for?” asked the official.
“To pay my fine.”
Nothing was known of such a fine at the Landdrost’s office. “Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed the digger, “I am a careful man; I always pay my fines in advance. I’m off on a spree, and am sure to get run in, and it makes me feel more comfortable to know that the fine is provided for.”
When Sir Charles Warren first arrived at the Cape, he had with him a silver presentation plate for Major (afterwards Sir) Owen Lanyon. The Custom House officials insisted on opening the package containing the plate, though the invoice stated exactly its nature. Sir Charles says (in “On the Veld in the Seventies”) that he felt sure they would spoil it with their rough hands, so he said he would rather knock it into the sea than have any more bother with it, and gave it a good kick. This had the desired effect on the Custom House officers. They gave in at once, saying it could be of no value if he could kick it; and so he got it through without any injury.
Many years ago church services used to be held at Barkley in the canteen, and on one occasion, in the middle of the sermon, the preacher noticed that several of those present were smiling. He looked round, and found he had displaced a blackboard put up as a screen, thereby disclosing the following notice:—“Free-and-Easy to-night. Gags free.”
There was once in the Cape an old miser named Van der Pool. The best of wines were to be found in his cellars, but no one ever tasted them. He hated spinach, but since spinach grew in his garden he used to eat it, being loath to waste it. On one occasion his black cook, Saartje, brought him a big dish of spinach, rotten with long keeping. What then happened is given by Miss Juta (“The Cape Peninsula”) in Saartje’s own words. “Saartje,” say ole Bass, very gentle, soft like, “go fetch me from die cellar a best big bottle of ole Pontac.”
I run fetch ole Pontac. Ole Basses, he put die bottle just so in front of him. “Now,” he say, “Saartje, you trek.” I trek no ferder dan die door keyhole. I see ole Bass pur out best ole Pontac, and put die spinach in front, too. “Now,” he say, “Hendrik, you see dis fine, werry, werry, fine ole Pontac, you eat dis verdomte spinach first, den you drink dis wine, wot’s been standing, Hendrik, kerl, for werry many years.” Ole Bass, he eat, eat fast as I nebber seen him before; den, when all spinach done, ole Bass he pour die wine back in die bottle. He laf, laf, and he say, putting his finger to his nose: “Hi! Hendrick, I fool you dis time, I think, fool you pretty well.”
President Kruger could enjoy a joke, even though directed against himself. Volksraad Committees often met at the Presidency, on which occasions they were regaled with coffee and cigars. Once a member of a Volksraad Committee condoled with Mr. Kruger on his recent severe financial losses. “What do you mean?” indignantly demanded the President. “Oh, I am referring to your recent losses on the Stock Exchange.” The President was now in a fury. “How dare you say that!” he shouted. “Well, there must be something in it” was the unconcerned reply. “But I tell you I have not lost a penny in any speculation whatsoever!” again protested the President, indignantly. “Then how is it we get no cigars to-day, President,” said the member, with an injured air. “I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon!” was the answer, and with a hearty laugh the President himself produced the fragrant weed.
In the pre-war days in the Transvaal many of the higher positions in the public service were filled by men whose only qualification was that they were friends of the “powers that were.” An old friend of President Kruger had fallen on evil days, and came to the President for help. “I have lost my farm,” he said, “and now you must give me an appointment.” The President regretted that he could not get him suitable employment in the service of theState. “But surely there must be some post open which you can give me,” the applicant pleaded. “Not one,” replied the President, sorrowfully. “I have tried everywhere. All the chief positions are filled up; and as to a clerkship, well, you know yourself you are too stupid for that.”
A Kaffir Story.—Two Tambookies running from the field of battle hid themselves in a hole, but the leg of one unfortunately protruding caught the eye of some wary Icalaca. They pulled him out and were preparing to slay him, when he cried: “Spare me, and I will tell you something.” They paused, and he said: “There is yet another man in that hole.” The second hidden warrior, hearing this, called out from his place of concealment: “Don’t believe him, kill him at once; he tells lies, there is no one in here.” But it availed him nothing, and, after the custom of Kaffirs, the two prisoners were forthwith assegaied.
Another Kaffir Story.—Umthonthlo, a native chief, who was the terror of his neighbours in the seventies, was once buying some guns from a trader who thought to deceive him. Showing him two guns, the trader asked the chief what he thought of them. “Oh,” said he, “this one is a Friday gun, that one is a Monday gun.” When asked to explain, hesaid: “Do I not know that all your artisans work well from Tuesday to Friday, and then all get drunk, and their Monday’s work is worth nothing at all? Never show me a Monday gun again.”
When the Reform prisoners were confined in the Pretoria Gaol they were frequently visited by the late Mr. B. I. Barnato, and on the occasion of one of his visits he chaffed them about the position that they had found themselves in, remarking that they had tried to play a game of poker with the Transvaal Government on a “Colley Thumper” hand. None of them had heard of this term before, and Mr. Barnato was asked to explain. He replied:—An English traveller with a not very extreme knowledge of poker, found himself on one occasion engaged in a game with an astute old Yankee on board an American steamer. Playing cautiously, the Englishman did pretty well until he suddenly found himself, to his great satisfaction, in possession of a full hand. The players alternately doubled the stakes until they were raised to £100. The Englishman then called the American’s hand, and the American deliberately put down a pair of deuces, a four, a seven, and a nine. The Englishman, with a triumphant smile, put down his full hand, and proceeded to gather the stakes. “Stop,” said the Yankee, “the stakes are mine; yours is only a full hand; mine is a ‘Colley Thumper,’ it beats everything.”The Englishman had never heard of such a hand before, but he determined not to show his ignorance, and reluctantly relinquished the stakes. The game then proceeded until at length the Englishman found himself in possession of a pair of deuces, a four, a seven and a nine. Betting went on freely until the stakes were raised to £500. The Englishman again called, and the Yankee put down a straight. “Ah,” said the joyful Englishman, “mine is a ‘Colley Thumper.’” “True,” said the American, “but you forget the rules. It only counts once in an evening.”
The following story illustrates the Kaffir’s love of cattle. A German trader once presented Panda, King of the Zulus, with a watch. “What is the use of it?” said he. “To tell where the sun is? We can see it; when cloudy we remain in our huts; at night we sleep. Does it give milk?” “No.” “Does it give calves?” “No.” “Then take your watch away.”
With certain troops sent to quell a Kaffir rising in the Cape in 1875, was a staff officer who was wearing one of the recently introduced spike helmets. On seeing him, an old native said he knew which of the soldiers would be most successful with the rebels, pointing out the officer with the helmet, and adding: “A pretty ramming he will give them.”
Years ago, when everything from South Africa was looked upon in England as strange, an enterprising American conceived the idea of bringing home a party of Kaffirs to astonish the citizens of London. Very wisely, instead of going into the wilds to find them, he contented himself with procuring some Kaffirs in the vicinity of Cape Town, and having instructed them in native dances and clothed them in the skin and war-paint of the savage Zulu, he brought them to London. The “wild” Kaffirs soon became the rage. A Dutch farmer from the Cape, named De Beer, who was then visiting England, strolled into the hall in Leicester Square, where the performance was going on. On seeing him, two of the “wild” Kaffirs rushed from the stage, and, seizing him by the arm, shouted in Dutch: “Here is old baas De Beer.” De Beer then discovered that these warlike savages were no other than his own labourers, who had deserted from his service in the Cape for a reason which he had never been able to discover.
One of the most conspicuous concessionaires before the war was Mr. Edward Lippert, to whom the dynamite monopoly had been granted. This circumstance caused a local wit to paraphrase Madame Roland’s famous exclamation: “Oh, Lippert E., Lippert E., what crimes are committed in thy name!”
President Kruger once accepted an invitation to a Parisian Ball, but no sooner had he entered the ball-room when he precipitately retreated, remarking “that they must have come too early, as the ladies were evidently not dressed yet!”
In 1875 there was a police corps in the Cape Colony known as the Frontier Armed Mounted Police, and the following anecdote is related by Mr. H. A. Broeme, who was then a member of the Force, in his book, “The Log of a Rolling Stone.” It was a point of etiquette with the corps that if an express rider stayed overnight he should be offered the very best bed in the station, even if the lawful occupant slept on the floor, but there was a surly trooper who would always decline to extend this hospitality, although he had by far the best bed, so the other members determined one day to pay him out. One evening an express rider came, shortly after which the “surly one” went “down town” by himself, never offering anything to the tired rider. On his return he was met by several of his fellow-troopers most apologetically. They were sorry to inform him that the express rider had got a little bit drunk, and had turned in, boots and spurs and all, into the surly trooper’s bed. Would the surly trooper mind? “I call it a blooming piece of presumption,” said he. “D——d if I’ll have it!” “You surely can’t turn him out now,” urged the others.“It will discredit the station. Better doss down alongside on the floor, old chap, till he wakes. Here are some spare blankets.” This, with considerable reluctance and many oaths, he did, and it is presumed slept very roughly until after daylight. Then a fearful yell of rage was heard, and a pair of top boots, a peaked cap and bolster were seen flying through the air. The sleeping express rider was a dummy!
Discipline was not the strong point of the corps in those easy-going days. Occasionally, says the same writer, Sir Walter Currie, the Officer Commanding, would take an inspection tour, but none were more surprised than he if any of his men were brought up before him for breach of discipline. A delinquent having once been brought before him for not having cleaned his troop horse or equipments on saddle parade, Sir Walter gazed at him absent-mindedly for a minute or so, and then, turning to the Sergeant-Major, said:—“Sergeant-Major, fine the beggar half-a-crown.” That was all.
A Free Stater was once charged before the Circuit Court with the crime of murder, and the evidence against him was strong. Now a certain trader, for commercial reasons, was anxious that the accused should be discharged, but did not think that this was possible in view of the evidence, but he thought that a verdictof culpable homicide might be obtained by a judicious pulling of the strings. A friend of the trader’s was one of the jurymen, and him he induced to stick out for a verdict of culpable homicide. At the trial, the foreman, in reply to the usual question put by the Registrar of the Court, declared that they were all agreed save one. The jury were then locked up and remained at their deliberations for three hours, and then the foreman reported that they had come to an unanimous decision as to the verdict, which was culpable homicide. On hearing the verdict the trader was overjoyed, and hastened to congratulate his friend on his smartness in being able to bring round the rest of the jury to his way of thinking.
“Yes,” said his friend, “it was hard work, I assure you.”
“Why? Were they all against you?”
“Yes, I should think they were. They all wanted to bring in a verdict of ‘Not Guilty’”.
Amongst the pre-war Boer leaders, General De la Rey was one of the most progressive, whilst his brother Piet, who was a member of the Volksraad, belonged to the reactionary party. Piet seldom spoke in the Raad, but on the occasion of the member for Johannesburg presenting a petition for permission to use the English language in the Courts of the Rand, he felt it his duty to say a few words. He said:—“English to be used instead of Dutchin Republican public offices? Never! Rather than that I would take up my old gun again and trek into the wilderness, or to fight, as the President wished. Never will I consent while alive to such an abomination—for”—resuming his seat—“my land is my land, and my tongue is my tongue!” The General deeply resented his brother’s speech. Now, Piet de la Rey’s eldest son, Jan, was a Customs officer on the western frontier, and as such received a percentage on what he collected, and from him, a few weeks after he made the above speech, Piet received a letter from Jan expressing fear “that I may incur great liability, as all the way-bills are in English, and as you would never let us children learn that language, I have got to believe what they tell me about them. So, please, father, advise me what to do.”
Piet consulted the General. The latter read the letter without saying a word. But Piet pleaded with him to tell him what advice to give to Jan. “Tell him,” at last replied the General, “that your land is your land, and your tongue is your tongue!”
In the seventies, when Sir Charles Warren was in Kimberley, he had tea one evening with a Mrs. Barber. There were some nice cakes, and he ate a good many. Then some more visitors came in, and he went away. Mrs. Barber was then taking care of a meercat belonging to Sir Charles. After he had left,and whilst she was feeding the meercat, she said to her guests: “Bother that brute Warren, he eats such a lot.” “Of course,” says Sir Charles (in his book “On the Veld in the Seventies”), it very soon came round to me that Mrs. Barber had called me a brute because I ate so many of her cakes. I took it as one of the usual stories afloat, but when I next saw her I told her what had been imputed to her. At first she was very indignant, but suddenly she said: “But now I recollect I really did say it. I call the meercat ‘Warren,’ and was abusing it for eating so much!”
Mr. “Barney” Barnato once related the following story in the Christmas number of the “Pelican.” When he first landed in Cape Town, en route for the Diamond Fields, he put up at the Masonic Hotel. There he met an individual clad in gorgeous raiment, ornamented with a profusion of large diamonds, who asked his name and where he was going to, and on hearing that the Fields were his destination, endeavoured to change his resolution, saying that he had himself cleared out all the diamonds that were there. Of course, “Barney” was a little cast down at this, but still stuck to his determination to see for himself. Years after he met the same stranger in Johannesburg. The stranger asked him how he managed to become chairman of the De Beers Company. “By not taking youradvice,” was the prompt reply. The story was afterwards classed by its author amongst his many successful works of fiction.
Once a well-known individual borrowed £10 from Mr. Barnato at Johannesburg, and, although asked for the money several times, always put off payment. One day “between the chains” Barnato said openly to some friends:—“Mind you don’t lend —— any money. He has £10 of mine, and it is time he was stopped.” The man heard of this, and coming up to him said:—“I hear you have been talking about me?” “Yes; I want my money.” “Well, here is your £10, and don’t talk about me any more.” A short time afterwards the same man asked Barnato for £25. “No, can’t do it,” was the reply. “Why not? I don’t owe you anything.” “I know you don’t, but you’ve disappointed me once, and I won’t risk another disappointment.”
About the year 1877, Sir Charles Warren was travelling in a post-cart from Cape Town to Kimberley and had as a fellow-passenger a very taciturn young man who was diligently studying his prayer-book. Warren’s curiosity was roused, but, being of a reserved nature, said nothing. Eventually his curiosity overcame his reserve, and he asked the young man what he was reading. “The Thirty-nine Articles” was the reply, and in this mannerthe two got to know each other. The young man was Cecil Rhodes, on his way back from Oxford to Kimberley for the long vacation, and he was characteristically using his time in the post-cart before he plunged again into the midst of diamonds and finance, in learning the Thirty-nine Articles for his next examination at Oxford.
Early in the eighties General Gordon was employed by the Cape Government (of which the late Mr. Sauer was then a member as Secretary for Native Affairs) to go to Basutoland to arrange terms of peace with the Basutos. Rhodes was also in Basutoland at that time, and the two men saw a good deal of each other. During one of their conversations, Gordon said to Rhodes:—“You always contradict me. I never met such a man for his own opinion. You think your views are always right and everyone else wrong.” Rhodes determined to get his own back. Noticing that the Basutos were making much of Gordon and very little of Sauer, he said to Gordon:—“Do you know, I have an opinion that you are doing very wrong. You are letting these Basutos make a great mistake. They take you for a great man, look up to you, and pay no attention to Sauer, whereas he is the great man here, and you are only in his employment. You ought to explain to the Basutos the truth, that he is somebody and you are nobody.” This was said jokingly, but Gordon took it quiteseriously. At the next indaba, accordingly, Gordon stepped out before the chiefs, and, pointing to Mr. Sauer, explained, to their astonishment:—“You are making a mistake in taking me for the great man of the Whites. I am only his servant, only his dog; nothing more.” After the indaba was over, he said to Rhodes:—“I did it because it was the right thing—but it was hard, very hard.”
General Gordon once told Mr. Rhodes the story of the offer of a roomful of gold which had been made to him by the Chinese Government after he had subdued the Tai-Ping rebellion. “What did you do?” asked Rhodes. “Refused it, of course; what would you have done?” “I would have taken it,” said Rhodes, “and as many more roomfuls as they would give me. It is of no use for us to have big ideas if we have not the money to carry them out.”
When Dr. Jameson was Administrator of Rhodesia, he was one afternoon lying on his bed in his tent, when a burly, drunken prospector suddenly lurched inside, and, drawing his revolver, said:—“You are a good old doctor, but I am b——y well going to shoot you.” Jameson remained motionless (says his biographer, Mr. G. Seymour Fort), puffed a whiff of cigarette smoke through his lips, and coolly replied:—“Yes, that’s all right, but don’t youthink you had better have a drink first?” The man agreed. Jameson called his servant and told him to take the man to the canteen, at the same time pointing with his finger not to the canteen but to the police camp. Off went the prospector, quite pleased, but soon discovered the ruse. A desperate struggle took place, the servant was thrown heavily to the ground, and the prospector was only just overtaken by the police as he was re-entering the tent, revolver in hand, and black murder in his heart.
When Cecil Rhodes was at Oxford, he looked so little like an Oxonian that he was able to deceive even the Proctor. “The Proctor,” related Mr. Rhodes, “took off his cap to me with the utmost politeness, and I did the same to him. ‘Well, sir,’ said the Proctor to me, ‘your name and college?’ ‘My name is Rhodes,’ I replied, ‘and I have just come here from the Cape of Good Hope, and am making a short stay in Oxford; and now, sir, may I ask your name and college?’” Whereupon the Proctor apologised for what he supposed to be his mistake, and Cecil Rhodes escaped unfined.
Mr. Louis Cohen, one of Mr. Barney Barnato’s earliest partners on the Diamond Fields, says that there was one man on the Fields whose business they both envied. He seemed to have a regular and large connection,and made constant rounds, riding one old yellow, rather lame, pony. The partners tried to follow him to see which way he went, but without avail. One day Barnato said to Cohen: “That chap —— has a rare good connection; we must get hold of a bit of it somehow.” “All right,” said Mr. Cohen, “we want it badly enough.” “I know what we have to do to get ——’s customers. I have seen him come home three days running.” Mr. Cohen thought Mr. Barnato was fooling, and replied rather sharply:—“If you had seen him go out and followed him up it would have been more to the purpose, I should think.” But Barnato soon convinced him that he was quite serious. “Look here,” said he, “I’ve seen him come back from his rounds three days running, and he always stops first at Hall’s canteen. Mind this, however, he does not guide the pony to the place, but just sits still all the while with loose rein, and the pony stops of his own accord. Now, it is my firm conviction that all day long he rides just the same way, and that the pony knows all the stopping places. I’ve known this for some days, but it didn’t help so long as he had the pony; to-day he has seen some other beast he likes better, and wants to sell the lame pony.” The partners bought the pony, with the successful results anticipated by Barnato. “I wonder,” says Mr. Cohen, “whether any other man than Barnato would have been so closely observant as to notice that the pony finished his rounds without guidanceand so probably knew all the usual stopping places of each day.”
In his biography of Mr. B. I. Barnato, Mr. Seymour says that one evening Mr. Barnato and Mr. Louis Cohen went to the Court Theatre, London. No seats had been booked; Barnato, as usual, had no money on him, and Louis Cohen had only a sovereign. Barnato borrowed this, saying that he would engineer the other shilling for their stalls somehow. Under the portico of the theatre was a man not quite blind, but with defective sight, who solicited charity. Barnato turned to Cohen and said:—“Do you mind, Lou, if we go to the circle instead of the stalls?” “Oh, no; just as you please.” Barnato then went to the office and asked for two circle seats. “Very sorry, sir, but all are gone. I can give you two side stalls if they will do.” A huge smile broke over Barnato’s face. “I have not come prepared to pay for stalls,” said he. “Very well, sir. You can have stalls for circle prices.” Barnato took his vouchers for the seats, went out to the man, gave him the whole five shillings change, and, turning to Cohen, said: “Now that is what I call finance.”
This is how Kimberley acquired its name. In 1871 the farm “Vooruitzigt” was proclaimed as a diamond digging. This name was declared by Lord Kimberley, then Secretaryof State for the Colonies, to be unpronounceable. Some one then suggested the name “New Rush.” This Lord Kimberley declared to be too suggestive of rowdiness. Some one else then suggested that the town should be called after the Minister. This was adopted, and so the town was christened Kimberley.
Mr. Rhodes was very careless about trifling personal matters. There was a function in connection with the Kimberley Exhibition at which he was taking a leading part. When he arrived at the gates of the Exhibition, he found he had mislaid his pass, and the gatekeeper, not knowing him, refused him admission. Putting his hand into his pocket, Mr. Rhodes enquired the price of admission. “Two shillings,” replied the gatekeeper. Mr. Rhodes then discovered that he hadn’t any money about him. “I am afraid I have left my purse behind,” he said, “but I suppose my watch will do.” He then discovered that he had mislaid his watch also, and told the gatekeeper who he was. That functionary, however, was unconvinced, and it is probable that Mr. Rhodes would not have gained admission to the Exhibition had not some one lent him the required florin. Mr. Rhodes subsequently sent the gatekeeper five pounds as a reward for having so unhesitatingly done his duty.
Mr. Stuart Cumberland, in his book, “What I think of South Africa,” relates thefollowing anecdote about “Barney” Barnato:
“I was a witness,” he says, “of a little joke Barney played upon a very august corporation. He was asked to write upon a form his name, place of residence and occupation. Down went the first, ‘B. I. Barnato,’ then ‘Spencer House,’ but when he came to occupation he hesitated. ‘How shall I describe myself?’ he asked. ‘Gentleman? no, that’s too elastic.’ ‘Dramatic author,’ I meekly suggested. (Barnato was then working at a play with Haddon Chambers). ‘That might do,’ he said, ‘only we should have Haddon Chambers saying I wasn’t, and then how should I stand? I have it—toff.’ And down went ‘toff’ on the paper. Presently the form came back with the enquiry what ‘toff’ meant. ‘Oh,’ replied Barnato, with an imperturbable countenance, ‘that’s the Hebrew for financial gentleman.’”
“I was a witness,” he says, “of a little joke Barney played upon a very august corporation. He was asked to write upon a form his name, place of residence and occupation. Down went the first, ‘B. I. Barnato,’ then ‘Spencer House,’ but when he came to occupation he hesitated. ‘How shall I describe myself?’ he asked. ‘Gentleman? no, that’s too elastic.’ ‘Dramatic author,’ I meekly suggested. (Barnato was then working at a play with Haddon Chambers). ‘That might do,’ he said, ‘only we should have Haddon Chambers saying I wasn’t, and then how should I stand? I have it—toff.’ And down went ‘toff’ on the paper. Presently the form came back with the enquiry what ‘toff’ meant. ‘Oh,’ replied Barnato, with an imperturbable countenance, ‘that’s the Hebrew for financial gentleman.’”
When the synagogue of the Johannesburg Hebrew Congregation was built, President Kruger was invited to perform the opening ceremony. He accepted the invitation, but the amazement of the hundreds of Israelites present may be imagined when the President announced, in his loudest tones:—“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I declare this building open.”
Mr. Rhodes was very fond of discussing the various points of English politicians, andthere was one member of the Gladstone Government of 1892 whom he cordially detested. He told me once, says Sir Lewis Michell, how he found himself seated next him at a dinner-party in London, and was so bored with him that in the middle of one of his arguments on some political problem he turned away from him and began talking to his other neighbour. “It was very rude of me, I know,” he said, “very rude. People who live in London can’t do these things—I can. I can do it on the basis of a barbarian!”
An old pioneer, invalided from Rhodesia by fever once called on Mr. Rhodes at Groote Schuur for relief. Out of work, out at elbows, and reduced to a pitiable state from privation, he was about to venture to state his case, when, to his inexpressible delight, he was hailed by name. Rhodes had recognised him, despite all changes. Putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, Rhodes said:—“Not a word, a good square meal first!” And to the kitchen he took him for that purpose, telling him to return to the stoep afterwards. He then heard his story, and gave him an order on his secretary in town to give him money for what clothes he wanted, and telling him to return the next day, which he did. He found Rhodes in a passion. “You only took ten shillings,” he cried. The man had been ashamed to ask for more. Rhodes at once took him to town in his own cart, went himself to the outfitters, completely clothedhim, gave him money and a free pass back to his work. “I never,” he said, “forget an old face.”
An officer of the Cape garrison purchased a pair of leopards, and requested permission to bring them into his quarters in the Castle, but, as there were many young children in the barracks at the time, he was refused. He therefore left them in charge of a Malay in the neighbourhood. On going to claim them, the Malay said to him, much to the officer’s consternation:—“There are the pair,” pointing to one animal, “but one has eaten the other.”
The ignorance of colonial affairs formerly displayed in England is illustrated by the story of a War Office official who desired to know the reason why the chaplain at Grahamstown could not perform his evening service at Kingwilliamstown, being, presumably, entirely ignorant of the fact that the two towns are ninety miles asunder.
During the Boer War of 1881, when Pretoria was under martial law, a certain garrison officer was summoned upon two boards of enquiry—one referring to the case of a sick soldier, and the other to an attack of glanders in a horse. Mistaking the board when called in to give his opinion as to what was best to bedone, he horrified the Court by advising them “to shoot him at once!”
Mr. Rhodes was once accused of changing his views rather hurriedly. “Yes,” he replied, “as hurriedly as I could, for I found I was wrong.”
Once, when twitted with his preference for young men, Mr. Rhodes retorted:—“Of course, of course, they must soon take up our work; we must teach them what to do and what to avoid.”
On another occasion, his sentimental attachment to the Boers was the matter of a jest. “They were the voortrekkers,” he replied, “the real pioneers. They have always led the way. It is your business to see that the flag follows.”
In 1881, during the visit of a showman named Duval to Kimberley, the following conversation between a country Dutchman and a town Dutchman was overheard on the market square of that town:—“What large bills are those on the walls?” asked the former. “Oh,” was the reply, “that is the advertisement of Duval, and Kimberley people go and see him every night.” The countryman expressed hisabhorrence of “de duivel,” and declared he would not visit his Satanic Majesty’s play. The townsman then explained himself, but unfortunately added a description of the sudden metamorphoses effected by the actor. The countryman then put down his foot and raised his hand, declaring:—“Nu weet ek dat hij de duivel is; mij Bijbel zeg net zo van hem. Ik zal nooit om zo’n ding zien.” A free translation of which is:—“Now I know he is the devil; my Bible speaks of him just so. I will never go to such a thing.”
Mr. Rhodes once received a letter from an educated native, which contained the following passage:—
“I never forgotten the well-treatment I received from you at Queenstown. I consider you my father, and beg to inform you that I want to come and work for you at Cape Town.”
It is evident, says Sir Lewis Michell, that employment was given, for the letter is endorsed, in the handwriting of Rhodes:—“The faithful native! He worked a week, but found household duties beneath his dignity.”
There is a certain type of man in South Africa whose cry is: “Ah, you should have seen it before the war!” When the British Association paid their visit to South Africa a few years ago, and were admiring the beautiesof the Southern Cross, a pre-war resident coming up gloomily from behind, cried: “Ah, you should have seen it before the war!”
Sir Bartle Frere once visited a farm owned by a man named Oberholzer, with whom he had a long conversation, astronomy being amongst the subjects discussed. Having explained that the planets shining above them were worlds like ours and composed of rocks and minerals much the same, Oberholzer pointed to the moon and expressed the opinion that, although it might contain many valuable minerals, he was sure there were no diamonds there.
“Why do you think that?” asked Sir Bartle Frere.
“Because,” replied the farmer, “if there were diamonds there you English would have annexed it long ago.” (At that period the dispute over the annexation of Griqualand West with its Diamond Fields had only just been settled.)
In 1896, whilst Rhodes was returning from England to South Africa by the eastern route, he decided to interview the Sultan of Turkey for the purpose of getting some stud Angora goats from him in order to endeavour to effect an improvement in the South African herds, which, owing to in-breeding and neglect, had deteriorated very greatly. His friends laughedat him, and said he could not possibly succeed; they even said: “You will not as much as be granted an interview.” “Well,” he replied, “I shall try, and if I fail it will be some satisfaction to know I have made an attempt.” The services of Sir Phillip Currie, as he then was, the British Ambassador at Constantinople, were enlisted on his behalf, and to his delight an interview was arranged for the following morning. About 10 a.m. the next day, he turned up at the Palace in his ordinary garb—a suit of flannel—and was met there by the Ambassador, whose face fell very much on seeing his costume. “Good gracious,” he said, “you can’t go to see the Sultan like that; you must go and get your frock coat.” “That is impossible,” replied Mr. Rhodes, “for I don’t possess one.” In the end a compromise was effected by his taking off his flannel jacket and squeezing into the Ambassador’s overcoat, which was very much too small for him. He met the Sultan, who was much taken with him, and agreed to let him have a considerable number of his Angoras, the benefit of which South Africa is reaping to-day.
When Sir George Grey was Governor of the Cape Colony he had occasion to travel up-country in a Cape cart, and on the road stopped at a wayside inn for breakfast. The bill for half-a-dozen boiled eggs and the same number of cups of tea was two pounds ten shillings. As the party were taking their seats in the Capecart again Sir George observed to mine host “that eggs must be scarce on that line.” “Your Excellency,” observed the innkeeper, “eggs is plentiful. It is Governors that is scarce on this road.”
During one of the Matabele wars, Cecil Rhodes was lying down by his wagon, reading a book, his companions having left him for some purpose or other, when a trooper came across from the laager and said, “Good day.” “Good day” replied Rhodes. “Have you got any fish?” asked the man. Rhodes tumbled to the situation at once. “No,” said he, “I am sorry to say I’ve got no fish.” “Got nofish,” said the trooper, “have you got anyjam?” “No,” replied Rhodes, “I’m sorry to say I’m out of jam.” “You’ve got no fish, and got no jam; whathaveyou got?” said the man. “You may as well ask that,” said Rhodes, “I’ve got precious little left, and what I have got they are trying to take away from me as fast as they can.” “I am sorry for that,” said the man, “but (looking at some six or eight books lying on the ground) you’ve got some books, I see, and (picking up one on Buddism) pretty deep subjects, too!” “Well,” said Rhodes, “I certainly do read a bit, that’s my recreation. You see, it’s pretty hard work selling fish and jamallday.” “I should think it must be,” said the man. “Well, I’m sorry for you, for you’re a civil-spoken kind of chap, and I’m still more sorry that you’ve got no fish or jam,but it can’t be helped—good day.” “Good day,” said Rhodes, and the man went back to the laager. One wonders, says Sir Lewis Michell, in narrating this anecdote, what the man’s feelings were when he saw Rhodes riding with Plumer the next morning at the head of the column, and discovered that the man he had mistaken for a purveyor of tinned stores to the troops was the greatest Englishman of modern times.
About thirty years ago, a certain Cape Governor had occasion to visit a small dorp in the northern part of the Cape Colony. This dorp consisted of about a dozen houses, mostly built of tin, but an enormous area of hill, vale and plain spread around it on every side. At the end of the address which was presented by the Mayor and Corporation, there was a request that the Governor might be pleased to sanction an allotment from the revenue of the Colony of some thousands sterling for the purpose of carrying out a complete system of municipal drainage. One of the houses composing the town stood on a broad eminence; the remaining structures occupied detached points in a rather swampy valley. “I wondered what he would say,” says Sir William Butler, who was present on the occasion in question as a member of the Governor’s staff, “when the time came for the Governor to reply.” “Gentlemen,” said the Governor, after thanking the municipality, “I entirely sympathise with you in your naturaldesire to have your promising town placed in a position in regard to its drainage and sanitary conditions which will enable it to fulfil the requirements of its undoubted future, but the scheme you propose would be a costly one, and the finances of the Colony are not for the moment too redundant. Would it not be less expensive if we were to move the town up to the top of that hill where the single house now stands. It would then practically drain itself.”
Once there was a slump in Johannesburg, and a deputation from the Rand went to interview President Kruger in Pretoria. “Times are bad,” they said, and it was not their fault. The Government must do something for them. Oom Paul listened in silence, smoking. At last he took his pipe from his mouth, and replied: “Gentlemen, you remind me of a pet monkey I once had. He was very fond of me; he would never leave me alone. When anything happened that he did not like, he always ran to me. One winter’s night he was at my feet by the fire. Monkeys never sit quiet for long, and he kept twisting himself round about until at last he got his tail into the fire. He did it himself, gentlemen; I didn’t even know he was doing it, but all the same he turned and bit me in the leg.”
A certain smouser once visited a farmer, bought his wool, and after the wool had beenweighed and the price per pound fixed, the smouser said: “So many pounds at so much comes to so much,” mentioning a sum about half the actual total. “No,” said the farmer, “it should be so much,” stating the real figure, and, to the smouzer’s amazement, produced a ready reckoner! With an air of surprise, the smouser said: “Let’s look at that book.” The farmer handed the book to the smouser and triumphantly pointed out the place. The smouser looked at the calculation, then turned to the title page and pointing to the date of publication, exclaimed, with an exultant laugh: “Why, you’ve got hold of last year’s ready reckoner,” and actually convinced the farmer that he had been swindled, not by the smouser, but by the man who had sold him the book!
A certain Frenchman, on hearing the news of the relief of Kimberley by General French, exclaimed: “Bon! Fashoda finds itself avenged. Behold, ze English are in the ze consomme, for ze French are in Kimberley.”
During the Zulu War of 1878, a Zulu spy was captured by some members of an irregular corps. The Sergeant-Major of the corps asked the O.C. what should be done with the spy. The officer at that particular moment was suffering from an injured shin and, being in a bad temper in consequence, replied shortly:“Oh, hang the bally spy!” Subsequently a court-martial was summoned to try the spy, and the Sergeant-Major was ordered to march up the prisoner. The Sergeant-Major, who was an Irishman, stared open-mouthed for a few seconds, and then said: “Plaze, sor, I can’t, sure, he’s hung, sor.” “Hung!” exclaimed the Commandant, who was standing within ear-shot. “Who ordered him to be hung?” “The O.C., sor,” replied the Sergeant-Major. “I ordered him to be hung?” then ejaculated the O.C., who was also present. “What do you mean?” “Shure, sor, when I asked you what was to be done with the spy, did you not say, sor, ‘Oh, hang the spoy,’ and there he is,” pointing to the slaughter poles, and sure enough there he was. The court-martial was postponedsine die.
In 1879, when Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood—then Colonel Evelyn Wood—was in command of the column then encamped at Kambulu, in Natal, a trader came into the camp with wagons and asked permission to sell groceries to the troops. Permission was granted to him on the understanding that he had no alcohol of any description. It was later discovered that he was selling gin to the soldiers at a shilling a glass, and Colonel Wood executed summary justice by having the trader tied to the wheel of his own wagon and giving him two dozen lashes. A few weeks later Colonel Wood received a summons issued on behalf ofthe trader, claiming damages to the tune of £5,000. This summons he ignored. “Some time afterwards,” says Sir Evelyn Wood, in “From Midshipman to Field Marshal,” “I was riding one morning into Utrecht when I met a horseman, who, stopping me, asked if he was on the right road to Colonel Wood’s camp, and also whether the road was safe. I told him he was quite safe until he got to Balte Spruit. ‘What sort of a man is this Colonel Wood?’ he asked. ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘some people like him and some people dislike him.’ ‘I have been told that he is very rough.’ ‘Yes, that is so—when he is vexed.’ ‘I am an officer of the High Court of the Transvaal, and I am going to him with a writ; do you think he will be violent with me?’ ‘Oh, no, I am certain he won’t.’ ‘Then you think there is no risk so far as he is concerned?’ ‘None whatever; but you had better not mention your business in the camp, as his own battalion is at Kambulu Hill, and it might be bad for you if the men got to know your errand.’ ‘Why, what do you think they will do to me—kill me?’ ‘Oh, no; the worst that would happen to you would be to be tarred and feathered.’ ‘I don’t like this job that I am on. I think, if you will allow me, I’d like to turn back and ride with you to Utrecht and send the document by post.’ Accordingly we rode along together, and I showed him the post office in the little town before I went about my business.”
When Mark Twain visited South Africa, he was asked by an eminent Africander what he thought of South African affairs. “Well,” replied Mark Twain, “after I had been in Cape Town a week and had heard both sides of the question, I thought I had mastered it. Then I went to Kimberley, and met with a totally different view. Up in Bulawayo there was quite another story, and in Johannesburg a different opinion was heard, while in Pretoria I might as well have been in another country. When I reached Bloemfontein——” “Yes?” said the eminent Africander, “what conclusion did you come to?” “Well,” said Mark Twain, “the only conclusion I could arrive at was that the South African question was a very good subject for a fool to let alone.”
A shooting story told by Mr. Carl Jeppe in “The Keleidoscopic Transvaal.” Mr. D. S. Mare, magistrate of Zoutpansberg, was out lion shooting with the late Barend Vorster, a mighty hunter before the Lord. A lioness had been wounded, driven out of cover, and stood at bay. The landdrost jumped off his horse, fired, and missed. It was now Vorster’s turn, since there was not time for his friend to reload. In dismounting, Vorster dropped his watch and stopped to pick it up. The lioness seemed about to charge, and Mare urged his friend to shoot. Vorster replied grumblingly that the glass of his watch had been broken. “Never mind that now; the lioness is readyto spring,” Mare replied. “Do you know,” said Vorster, “I shall have to send the watch to Pretoria, and that it will cost me five shillings to get it repaired?” “Good heavens,” cried the magistrate, “don’t you see you have not a moment to loose?” “It’s all very well for you to talk,” Vorster replied; “it’s not your watch that is broken!” At last, however, he fired, and with unerring aim gave the lioness thecoup de grace.
The following is an exact copy of a letter written by a half-educated Kaffir in the De Beers Diamond Mine Compound to his sweetheart outside:—
Dear Miss Judea Moses,—My dear, I am take this lettle time of write you this few lines hoping that it will find you in a good state of health, as it leaves me here in the Compound My dear Girl I am very sorry that you did not write my ansert back My dear Judea Moses be so kind and let me know how it is with you my dear girl I mean to say you must cry out and shout thou in the habitant of Zion, for great is the holy one of israel My dear Miss Judea i glided by lawns and grassy plots My dear friend please andswer me as soon as you get this letter My dear oft in sadness or in illness I have watched thy current glide till the beauty of its stillness overflowed me like a tide I steal my lawns and grassy plots I slide by hazel covers i move the sweet forget-me-nots thatgrow for happy lovers My dear darling miss J. Moses Here I shall drup writing with Best loves good By 2222 kisses to youe.
Two middies, many years ago, returning to Simonstown from Cape Town, where they had been on a jaunt, arrived one dark night at Muizenburg. It was too late and too dark to continue their journey, so they put up at an inn known as “Father Peck’s.” When the bill was presented to them the following morning they discovered they had no money. “We’ll paint you a signboard,” they said to the landlord. This they did, adding the following lines:—